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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25801993">Siesta</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coeurire/pseuds/Coeurire'>Coeurire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, Nightmares, Polyamory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:29:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>847</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25801993</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coeurire/pseuds/Coeurire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The 502 gateway rises. You fight your way to your girlfriend, Jessica. </p><p>Reader is female and gets called "my girl" at one point.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jessica Telephone/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Siesta</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You love the way she moves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watching her from the stands, you can imagine the way her muscles ripple underneath her uniform as she swings. You see the step as she carries through, the strong grip she keeps on the Dial Tone until it goes flying from her hands, drags a trail of dust through the dirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know how strong her fingers are from the way they entangle in yours, the way they grip your hair and your arm and your back like she can’t get enough of just being close to you, when the game is over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which it so rarely is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You spend as much time together as she can spare on her day of rest, but she has other responsibilities, other girlfriends, some of whom care more than you do about getting some one-on-one time with her. Truthfully, it would be enough to stay in the room with her and watch her dote over other girls. It would be worth it just to see the way her lip curls upward, her eyes crinkle when a girlfriend says something that makes her laugh. It would be worth putting a hand on her knee and a head on her shoulder even when she’s not paying attention to you. Jessica Telephone is like that; all you want is to be around her, it doesn’t matter what she’s doing or what you’re doing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back in the game, you watch Jessica hit the ball far past the outfielders. She runs from base to base and you’re memorized. Her hair flies beautifully behind her, whipping around her face. You smile, knowing from the scent you’ve memorized that that whipping hair is giving her a faceful of strawberry conditioner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The 502 Bad Gateway rises out of nowhere, suddenly as it always does, ripping the field into incomprehensibility. Fans are encouraged to stay in their seats. But you’re not just a fan anymore. You tear through the fog, the fabric of reality, the grass growing straight out of the air until you’ve reached her place on the field.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” she says. “Join me for a siesta?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sit down beside her. Tendrils of grass grow from the earth beside you. White paint hisses through the air like a flying snake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A literal or figurative one?” you ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She yawns, smiling. “I’m up for either.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pick up on her tiredness, brought on from her long days as a player and her long nights with women and nonbinary people. With people like you. You feel so lucky to be considered in that number, one of her girlfriends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s nap then,” you say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm.” She lies on her side and raises an arm for you. You snuggle in close to her, filthy blaseball uniform and all. She smells like sweat and strawberries and mud and the strange metallic odor of the Dial Tone, which is still at her side. It looks like it should be incredibly uncomfortable, but she seems fine. You wonder if the Dial Tone feels like a part of her body at this point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for joining me on the field,” she says. “People don’t usually, and I…” She yawns again. “Excuse me. I hate napping alone, I was gonna say.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for getting me tickets,” you reply, suddenly wishing you had peanuts, or coins, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>to give her. She deserves to be showered in gifts. But you have yourself, and from the way she’s stroking your back, it seems like that’s enough for her for now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could I not get tickets for my girl?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your heart swells when she says that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My girl. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re hers. Here on the cold, gross, muddy, intemporal field, you’re hers. You move in closer to her, rubbing her back, and soon your lips are on hers. She’s incomprehensible, inhuman, intoxicating. And like you, she doesn’t really care which of her teammates or rivals can see you kiss through the field’s flickering unreality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls those soft, perfect lips away, those lips that are sublime in the Romantic sense, sublime like a thunderstorm or an enormous wave that crashes around you strongly enough to drown you. “Let’s sleep,” she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she drifts off into a sleep that seems, from the way she shakes and wails beside you, plagued by horrible dreams. You know better than to wake her; if you do, those horrorterrors could continue to haunt you when she wakes. Instead, you hold her close to you, stroking her back in an attempt to make her sleep somewhat less fitful. To let her dream-self know that at least, back beside her real body, someone is watching, protecting her from the birds that occasionally show up to peck at her hair or ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re not sure when the 502 Gateway recedes into the ground, or who or what it is that grabs you by the arms and presses you back into your seat. But you’re sure, when Jessica’s next up to bat, it’s you she’s scanning the crowd for. And you’re sure you’re going to see her when the game is over. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks so much for reading! I'm actually a Crabs fan but I'm super in love with Jessica. </p><p>Twitter: coeurire <br/>Tumblr: mothbutterfly <br/>Discord: wrath month#2270</p></blockquote></div></div>
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